


How I Sing You Like a Song

by whenshewrites



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Affectionate Jaskier, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Consent is Sexy, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt Deserves Nice Things, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Goddammit, Idiots Comforting Each Other, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is a Nice Thing, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch-Starved, jaskier is soft, let them be happy, soft touches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24154375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: Geralt doesn’t really remember a time when someone touched him without intent. Not until Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 935
Collections: Five times a character did something cute and one that I saved it as a bookmark





	How I Sing You Like a Song

~ i ~

Geralt doesn’t really remember a time when someone touched him without intent. 

His earliest memories should go back to his mother and father, but they’ve been ghosts to him for a while now. He used to close his eyes when he was in bed with the softest tavern wench and pretend like their touches meant more than lust and desire, but it was never real. If he thought hard about it, the last person to touch Geralt gently would’ve been a child he rescued from a kikimore a little over five years ago. She’d been wide-eyed and curious, pale fingers tracing through Geralt’s white hair like it was the most interesting thing she’d ever seen.

But then the girl’s mother had scooped her up and taken off running, and Geralt had been left with the barest hit of a touch. It was gone before he could even memorize how it felt.

These weren’t thoughts he’d had before, not really. Not until Jaskier, at least.

Geralt had come to realize maybe he didn’t deserve touches that didn’t back another intent. Whether it was to hurt him, to pleasure him, or simply for the twisted triumph that came with touching a witcher and walking away with both hands, Geralt wasn’t supposed to be touched gently. And he wasn’t supposed to be bothered by this either. He wasn’t created to.

But then Jaskier came along. Grinning, bright-eyed, outlandish Jaskier. The first one to ever touch Geralt without another intention in mind.

It started with a whisper.

Geralt had been beaten and bloodied before, so this was nothing new. Jaskier still insisted on pouring him a bath, though, and had simply laughed with Geralt growled. The bard’s blue eyes danced and he shook his head, prodding Geralt toward the tub of steaming water with a grin.

“Go on, witcher, it won’t bite. You smell like a horse’s arse and don’t look much better, so a bath will do you good. Just let me get a cloth and some soap.”

“I don’t need to be hand-cleaned,” Geralt said, stripping off his shirt. “I can do it myself.”

“Ah, yes, witcher, but what happens to the spots you cannot reach? They’ll continue to fester and stink and as long as I’m sharing a room with you, that will not do.”

“You could always sleep somewhere else,” Geralt grumbled. Jaskier only laughed.

“And deny you the satisfaction of my presence? I think not. Now get in the water and pull back your hair. Yes, Geralt, just like that, and no, stop growling at me. It’s rude.”

Geralt rolled his eyes but did as he was told. He sunk down into the water, clothes in a pile next to the tub, and had to admit the warmth was nice. He moved his hair over his shoulder as Jaskier knelt to the side with a hum, dipping a cloth in the water and rubbing a bar of lavender smelling soap against it.

Geralt stared resolutely ahead and set his jaw. He was prepared to feel Jaskier’s fingers against his skin— he’d let himself be washed by others before. Their touches often went south.

But Geralt wasn’t prepared to feel the whisper of fingers brushing over his shoulders. Gentle caresses rubbing the cloth through the grime layering his skin and Jaskier chuckling softly to himself as he wiped it along the back of Geralt’s neck. Jaskier’s fingers never dipped beneath his collar bone and he hummed as he worked, turning the water a dirty shade of brown in a matter of moments. Those careful fingers danced over Geralt’s neck, beneath his chin, and traced over his shoulder blades.

Geralt barely dared breathe. 

Jaskier moved on to his hair, then. Geralt didn’t usually like people touching what he didn’t often wash; the grime rubbed into his scalp, the white strands he sometimes pulled out of his face but not always. Jaskier scratched his fingers through Geralt’s hair, rubbing more lavender oil in deep and cupping Geralt’s forehead like a child when he rinsed it out, as to not get any soap in the witcher’s eyes.

Geralt didn’t… know how to react to any of this. He started out stiff and rigid, but soon found himself still a little tense, but sitting back with half-lidded eyes. Jaskier was humming one of his more favored tunes and there was a smile on his lips. One that always put Geralt at ease.

The bard didn’t stop until Geralt’s upper body was clean. Then he laughed and prodded Geralt’s cheek, pushing the cloth against his face.

“Wash the rest of yourself up, witcher. Unless you’d like me to rub some chamomile onto your lovely bottom.”

Geralt growled and Jaskier snorted. The bard pushed himself up and moved away with the whisper of a touch. One that left Geralt wanting more in a way he never had before.

It started out with a whisper. And Geralt fell head-over-heels from there.

~ ii ~

The second time was less of a whisper and more of a shout.

Geralt didn’t remember how the blade sunk into his stomach, but he did feel the pain of the street as he collapsed sideways. He heard Jaskier scream his name and then his hooded attacker was thrown against the opposite wall, grunting in surprise. Geralt heard the sound of drawing metal, realized it was his sword catching the moonlight, and blood splattered across the cobbles as Jaskier cut the man down with a brutal cry.

The bard’s eyes flashed blue as he turned around. Geralt thought he’d never seen anything more ferocious or beautiful.

The wound would’ve been fatal to anyone else, but Geralt just felt his world go hazy. Jaskier dropped to his side and cupped the back of his head, guiding it to his lap. Geralt slurred out the bard’s name, frustrated he couldn’t get it right, and then Jaskier was shouting for help, voice ringing off the silent streets of the dark town.

Someone came eventually. A young healer with wide eyes and dark hair. She— Willa— helped Jaskier carry him to her home and they liad him on a bed of furs. Geralt wanted to tell the bard he was being an idiot. Everything was fine. But the words wouldn’t come out.

Jaskier shushed him every time Geralt tried to speak.

“You’re a downright fool, you are,” Jaskier said, standing back as Willa lifted his shirt to eye the wound. Jaskier’s arms were crossed over his chest and his eyes flitted from the wound to the healer, then back. “Will he be alright?”

“It didn’t go deep,” Willa said. “And he’s a Witcher.”

“So he’ll be alright?”

“Keep an eye on him for tonight. I’ll wrap it and check again come morning.”

Geralt let his eyes flutter closed as she cleaned and dressed the wound. Jaskier kept muttering things and pacing, then grabbed their pouch of coins and pushed a generous number into the healer’s palm when she offered Geralt the bed for the rest of the night. The moment she was gone, Jaskier turned toward him and glared.

“A fool, Geralt, you’re a downright fool.”

“What I not supposed to get stabbed?” Geralt asked, opening his eyes again. Jaskier scrunched up his nose in irritation.

“No, witcher, you weren’t! And like that, of all occasions, good gods. Do you realize how shameful it would’ve been if you’d died? I wouldn’t be able to sing your praises ever again. They’d have to be songs of jest. I’d have to ruin your image forever.”

“Glad to hear you care,” Geralt mumbled. Jaskier rolled his eyes and dropped onto the chair next to the bed.

“I do care,” he said. “Your praises make me a lot of coin. What would I do if you died?”

“I doubt you’d be alive much longer yourself, if we’re being honest,” Geralt said. Jaskier made a noise of protest.

“How rude! Truthful, perhaps, but rude all the same.”

“And there you have it.”

Jaskier pouted. But after a moment, his eyes drew to Geralt’s bare chest and his bandaged wound, and his expression changed. Geralt tensed as Jaskier touched the wound, but the bard didn’t do anything other than trace a single finger over the skin around it. He gave Geralt a careful look.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not much,” Geralt said honestly. Jaskier’s brows furrowed.

“I killed that man.”

Geralt didn’t answer that. Jaskier shook his head, face set in resolution.

“I don’t regret it.”

“No?”

“No,” Jaskier said, looking at him fondly. “Stabbing witchers in the middle of the night is incredibly rude. Even if they do glare and growl a lot.”

“So it’s not just about the coin?”

“Of course, it’s not just about the coin,” Jaskier said with a laugh. He reached over to catch the ends of Geralt’s hair, tracing it between his fingers as if he didn’t even realize what he was doing. “I do care, witcher. About you staying alive.”

“Oh?”

“Stop it with the face. I’m being a good friend here.”

“You are,” Geralt said quietly. “Being a good friend.”

Jaskier’s eyes turned bright. He tilted his head and chuckled, thumb brushing over the curve of Geralt’s chin. His fingers traced down and did little circles around his collar bone, then wavered over the wound again. Jaskier chewed on his lower lip. “I wonder why he did it.”

“Who?”

“The man,” Jaskier said. “He looked angry when the light caught his eyes. A little mad, perhaps. But what drives a man to attempt murder? Surely it’s more than a little emotion.”

“Lots of things can drive a person to kill,” Geralt said. When Jaskier met his gaze again, the bard looked sad. Careful fingers laid across Geralt’s bandage, warm to the touch.

“Perhaps, witcher,” Jaskier murmured. “Perhaps.”

Geralt didn’t know how to answer that. So he settled for a huff and turned his face away, closing his eyes. In truth, he did hurt a little bit. And he was tired. They’d been heading to the inn to purchase a room when his mystery attacker had come out of nowhere. “I’m going to sleep, bard. No more talking.”

Jaskier only chuckled. Geralt took that as agreement.

Jaskier didn’t move away, though.

And sometime later, if Geralt woke up to fingers tugging his hair into little braids and Jaskier humming to himself as he kept watch, nobody else would know. Geralt might smile or he might not, and he’d never admit it out loud if Jaskier’s tune lulled him back to sleep. 

No one would know if Geralt woke up the next morning with a bard’s head on his chest, either. That if somehow, the bard that complained when his pillow wasn’t fluffy enough fell asleep on a predator’s chest, no one would ever hear a peep of it.

Willa deemed that Geralt’s wound was going to heal just fine a couple hours later. His hair was in tiny little braids when they left her house. And the townspeople found a dead body the next morning with no idea how it’d gotten there in the first place.

Because the second time was more of a shout. And it continued to echo even as Geralt and his bard left the town to never return.

Geralt thought he liked that more than a whisper anyway.

~ iii ~

The third time had a purpose.

Perhaps the other two did as well, but the third time was different. The winter storms came earlier than usual and Geralt hadn’t expected to be caught so off guard by the cold. It didn’t bother him nearly as much, but Jaskier was shivering by the time they reached the closest town. 

The inkeep regarded them both with an unimpressed look before announcing he only had one room left; the smallest and the most bare. Geralt growled and offered more coin, but the innkeeper was steadfast in his statement. There was only a shack of a room left and they’d either take it or be off to face the cold.

The most important thing was getting Jaskier off the streets. So Geralt agreed with a gunt and the innkeeper’s face softened. “I’ll have extra blankets and warm water sent up. It’s the least to be done in the face of a storm like this.”

Geralt nodded, before turning Jaskier toward the stairs. The bard was wrapped in his fur cloak and his teeth were chattering, lips turned ice blue. Still, he offered a small smile as they climbed the stairs. “We should be glad we got this at least, witcher. Could be worse. Could be the stables.”

“I’ve slept in a stable before,” Geralt grunted. “It’s not so bad.”

Jaskier’s face fell. Geralt cursed himself silently.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh, it’s alright, witcher,” Jaskier said, offering a smile again. “ Come on, I plan to burrow down in some blankets and enjoy a nice warming cup of ale or two.”

Geralt shook his head. Though a cup of ale didn’t sound too bad in weather like this.

The room was even smaller than the innkeeper claimed. The walls had cracks and the bed was lopsided, shoved up against the corner. The window was covered in grime, but at least it was a barrier between them and the storm.

Jaskier shivered again. Geralt nudged him toward the bed.

“Go on, bard, before you freeze to death.”

“It always means so much when you care, Geralt.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. He often cared, even if he didn’t make a habit of saying that out loud. But for some reason, he felt like Jaskier knew that. The bard was grinning slightly, patting him on the shoulder before moving over to the bed. It creaked as he dropped onto it.

A few minutes later, a young girl came with a bucket of steaming water and a pile of blankets. Geralt pressed a silver coin into her hand and nodded when she beamed, taking back off down the hall. Jaskier was watching him from the edge of the bed when Geralt turned back around, dropping the pile of blankets onto the mattress and setting the water on the bedside table.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, eyeing the steam risking from it with half-lidded eyes. “A bath, Geralt, wouldn’t a bath be nice right now?”

“That’s not enough water for a bath,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“I know that, witcher. But would be nice all the same.”

“Would you like me to order more?” Geralt asked. He didn’t know if the innkeeper would actually agree, but Geralt could be quite threatening when he needed to. Jaskier just laughed.

“No, there’s no need for that, Geralt. Give me the cloth, though, I want to wash my hands.”

Geralt passed it over and focused on unfolding the blankets, the screeching of the wind outside their room picking up as flurries of snow danced around in circles. He didn’t realize Jaskier was talking again until the bard caught his sleeve, pulling him to the edge of the bed and making him sit down. Geralt did so with a raised brow.

“What.”

“Oh, stop it,” Jaskier said, taking his hands. “We’re both dirty. You the most, but that really shouldn’t be a surprise.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but didn’t fight back. He let Jaskier rub the cloth over his hands, the bard’s fingertips dancing over the callouses lining his palms and moving between his fingers to wash away all of the dirt. The water was warm and when Jaskier pulled back, the air of the room seemed even colder. Jaskier grabbed pulled the blankets across the bed.

“Will you share warmth with me, oh, dear witcher?”

Geralt gave him a flat look. Jaskier grinned and wrapped himself in the fluffiest one, dropping sideways on the bed with a sigh. 

“It is quite warm, you know.”

Sometimes, Geralt didn’t know how he got in situations like this. He’d come to realize it was mainly Jaskier related. Had he be been alone, Geralt wouldn’t be thinking about anyone’s warmth other than his own. In fact, had he been alone, he probably would have kept going until he found a town with an actually comfortable room.

But Geralt wasn’t alone. Jaskier was here-- he always was.

It was getting dark out when Geralt found himself stripped of his wet shirt and sitting on the floor, ale in hand, leaning against the bed with Jaskier at his side. The bard made a happy noise every time he took a drink and Geralt found himself smiling fondly instead of rolling his eyes whenever Jaskier did.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jaskier said after a moment. Geralt looked at him in surprise and Jaskier tilted his head, blue eyes dancing. “It would be rather lonely if you were not.”

Geralt looked down at his mug. “I’m glad you’re here too.”

Jaskier huffed in amusement. But Geralt meant it.

“Would you tell me a story?” Jaskier asked after taking another drink of his ale. He wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve and thought for a moment. “Not one of monsters or women or great battles. A different story. One fit for a night like this.”

“I don’t know many other stories,” Geralt said. Actually, he didn’t think knew any at all. There wasn’t much else to his life other than the things Jaskier had excluded. Except for the bard. Jaskier looked over at him, face half-buried in his mug of ale, before smiling with a nod.

“Very well, then, I’ll tell a story. I know plenty.”

Geralt thought maybe he should disagree. Tell him to shut up and then they’d both go to sleep. But when Jaskier burrowed against his side, he didn’t say a word. So Jaskier began to talk.

He told a story of a knight and his squire, who traveled the lands rescuing innocents and saving towns. He talked about the knight’s bravery and the squire’s love for the arts, which sometimes made him fear he would never be a great warrior. Jaskier laughed when he spoke of the knight’s great horse and the squire’s… odd companion. A beast none of them knew the species of, but the squire was content with naming Greg.

Geralt thought it was all ridiculous. But Jaskier was smiling and his eyes danced with every word, so Geralt didn’t say anything. Just remained quiet and listened.

Jaskier’s voice quieted a little when he spoke of the squire’s love for the knight. A secret he would never tell, for fear of how the knight would react. The bard’s smile had faded a little.

“But sometimes,” he said. “For all intents, love doesn’t need to be the goal. It’s just an emotion. Like anger or hate. Lots of things can drive a person. But that shouldn’t be all there is. Not if it’s real.”

Geralt looked quietly over at the bard. Jaskier was smiling again, eyes looking straight forward at nothing. Then he blinked and shook his head, meeting Geralt’s gaze.

“Did I go off story? I think I went off story.”

“No,” Geralt said. “It was good. It was… different.”

“Different,” Jaskier said with a grin. “Okay, witcher, I’ll pretend that’s good praise. There is a reason I stick to singing, you know.”

Geralt thought there wasn’t much of a difference between that and a song— they both told a story. But he only nodded and glanced out the window, where the snow continued to come down. It was becoming more and more likely they wouldn’t be leaving this room for a couple of days.

Geralt didn’t think he minded that. 

Jaskier was pressed up warm against him and he claimed to have plenty more stories to tell. Better than the last one, he promised. Except Geralt liked the last one. It circled through his mind even as the room grew dark and Jaskier fell asleep leaning against his shoulder, one arm wrapped around Geralt’s side and the other across his lap.

Geralt didn’t think too hard when he found the bard’s fingers, a little cold as their fingers touched. Jaskier made a soft noise in his sleep, but didn’t wake up or move. Geralt let his eyes close too, covering Jaskier’s hand with his own.

Geralt thought this— whatever it was— might be real.

~ iv ~

There was no inn this time. There were no baths or stab wounds or snowstorms. Nothing of the sort.

Geralt always liked these days better; when they were in the quiet woods sitting around the fire, the smell of smoke in the air and the sky turning golden overhead.

Jaskier was strumming his fingers over his lute and singing softly. Something about a woman and her long lost husband, though Geralt wasn’t paying much attention to the words. His eyes were fixed on the way Jaskier picked at the strings and how his lips moved softly over each word sung.

He had eaten until he was full and the air was cool. It was a nice afternoon; the way Jaskier smiled and winked when he caught Geralt watching.

Geralt still looked away. His face grew warm and something… something in his chest tugged. Some kind of strange want.

Jaskier’s tune trailed off. Geralt looked up again as the bard lowered his lute, blue eyes searching Geralt’s face as he set it aside and pushed himself up, moving around the fire.

“You’ve been different lately, witcher. Have I done something wrong?”

Geralt blinked in surprise. Jaskier sunk down at his side, glancing down at his hands with a nervous expression on his face.

“Have I done something to upset you?”

“No,” Geralt said, faster than he’d meant to. But he was surprised. “Of course, not.”

“Then what’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“Nothing’s happened.”

Jaskier stared at him. Geralt cursed himself and dropped his gaze.

“Nothing’s wrong, bard.”

“I do know when you’re lying to me. You’re not as smooth as you would like to be, witcher.”

Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier’s face softened.

“I am your friend, Geralt. I would like to be there if you’d let me.”

Geralt swallowed. Because that’s exactly what Jaskier was— his friend. Geralt shouldn’t be thinking this way about his friend. His travel companion. The one who’d stayed by his side no matter what Geralt ever did and no matter what ever happened. He shouldn’t. He hadn’t felt this way before and Geralt didn’t know why he’d come to feel it now.

Jaskier was still watching him. Geralt gazed at the ground and thought carefully before finding what he hoped was a good answer.

“The things I feel shouldn’t drive my actions. They’re just emotions.”

Jaskier blinked at him. Geralt raised his eyes.

“Not if it’s real.”

“Geralt, what’s real? What are you talking about?”

“Things… with intent,” Geralt said carefully. He wasn’t even sure if he was making sense, but he thought it was a good explanation. “You deserve feelings that don’t back another intent. It’s… different. I know it’s different. For a witcher than it is for other people.”

Jaskier still looked confused. Geralt clenched his jaw in frustration.

“What drives a man to attempt murder?”

Jaskier drew back with a startled expression on his face. “Are you going to murder me, Geralt?”

“What? No.” Geralt said. “Of course not.”

“Then—” Jaskier sudden cut off his, his face clearing. He tilted his head. “Geralt, are you trying to tell me about your emotions?”

Geralt growled, looking away. Jaskier made it sound foolish. “No.”

“Witcher, what are your emotions?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a game, Jaskier.”

“No,” Jaskier said, still studying his face. It made Geralt uncomfortable. “No, I don’t think it is. Geralt, what do you feel?”

Geralt scowled. Jaskier touched his face, like he wanted to turn it without forcing him. Gritting his teeth, Geralt met Jaskier’s eyes.

“Geralt, I am your friend. Remember?”

“You don’t touch me with intent,” Geralt said suddenly. Jaskier blinked and Geralt growled, trying again. “You don’t want anything from me. Not like you’re supposed to.”

“I’m supposed to?”

“They’re always supposed to!”

Jaskier pulled his hand away. But that wasn’t what Geralt had wanted. “Do you not like it when I touch you? Without… wanting something more?”

“I do,” Geralt said darkly. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Should it not be?”

Jaskier’s face softened. His eyes turned sad and he reached up to cup Geralt’s face with both hands. Geralt tried not to turn his face into the touch, but it was hard. A small smile tugged at Jaskier’s lips. “You are allowed this, Geralt. You know that, don’t you?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier touched his forehead against Geralt’s own.

“This is real, Geralt. As all touches should be.”

Geralt knew that wasn’t true. But it didn’t stop him from closing his eyes and feeling the touch of skin against skin. How warm and gentle it was. Like a silent promise that Jaskier would never hurt him. Geralt wanted more. But he was scared to even breathe.

Jaskier always seemed to understand him.

“Geralt, if I…” he moved forward carefully. Geralt didn’t pull away.

When Jaskier kissed him, it was like a whisper. Careful and soft, gentle lips brushing over his own. Geralt moved forward and turned it into a shout, pressing his lips against Jaskier’s with all the intent it must take to kill a man. Purpose and hunger and want and emotion. Jaskier made a small noise at the back of his throat and his fingers moved to curl in Geralt’s hair, with more strength than they usually had when turning it into braids.

Geralt knew this touch had intent. But it was different. It was right. Geralt did his best to memorize it all, before it was nothing but a hint and a ghost.

Jaskier pulled away with a dazed-looking expression. His hand dropped out of Geralt’s hair.

Geralt suddenly felt a pit form in his stomach.

“Jaskier, I—”

Jaskier blinked a few times. His gaze sharpened. “Are you okay?”

Was  _ he _ okay? That was— he had— Geralt stared and Jaskier studied his face, then let out a small breath. The bard caught his hand and squeezed.

“I, Jaskier the bard, do intend that you, the Witcher of Rivia, do so deserve a fair touch. And I swear to the gods, Geralt, if you try to tell me any different, I will never tell you how the story of the knight and the squire ends. Ever.”

Geralt stared blankly at him. Jaskier grinned.

“So tell me, fair witcher, what are your emotions?”

“You’re an idiot, Jaskier.”

“Ah, yes, but I am your idiot. And I do so declare that my emotions are far beyond infatuation and are real and goddammit, Geralt, if you ever even think to—”

This time, Geralt kissed him, if only to shut the bard up. That’s what he told himself, at least, when Jaskier squawked and then grinned, kissing him back. But this time it was Geralt with the intent. With everything from a whisper, to a shout, and with all the purpose in the world. Something about it was right in a way things never had been before.

And Geralt knew it was real.

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly just tooth-rotting fluff because both idiots deserve to be happy. Of course, the comments and support you guys leave makes my day and I really hope you all enjoyed! Stay safe <3
> 
> Come hang with me on Tumblr!  
> [here](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)


End file.
